“I know. Smart girl too, by all accounts.”
“Yes. She is.” Dracup felt tiredness ambush him in its usual underhand way. He suddenly felt bone weary. Does everybody know everything about me? He walked behind the kitchen bar and put the mugs in the sink with a clatter.
“We wanted a word with her as well – just to be on the safe side.”
“With Sara? Why on earth? She’s nothing –”
“That’s what we thought, but we haven’t been able to get hold of her either. Thought she must be with you.”
Dracup couldn’t think straight anymore. “Well, she was. I mean, she had to come back for some emergency. Something to do with her landlady – wretched woman’s a pain. Hang on – I’ll give her a call.” He wiped his hands on the tea towel.
“I wouldn’t bother – there’s no one there.”
Dracup stopped in mid-wipe. “What do you mean?”
“What I said. We’ve been round there this morning. The house is empty. No one home.”
“Well, she’s probably at a friend’s – she has a friend up by the University – she cat-sits for her occasionally. That’s where we –”
“Mr Dracup, when I mean there’s no one there, I mean the house is empty bar the furniture. No personal possessions. Nothing. It’s bare.”
Dracup grabbed his mobile and punched in the familiar sequence. Three pips. This number has not been recognised. He looked at Moran in bewilderment, hoping the DCI could impart some further explanation. “I don’t understand.”
Moran gave him a sympathetic smile. “Looks like you’ve been had, Professor. Don’t feel too bad about it. Happens to us all.”
Dracup made for the door, but Moran caught his arm. “One more thing, Professor. Don’t leave the country, will you? I might need another word.”
Dracup shook him off angrily and unhooked his keys from the niche by the front door. “You have my number.”
Moran called after him. “If you hear from your friend I want to know about it.”
Dracup arrived at Sara’s front door. He rang the bell. Nothing. He tried to remember anything she had said in Scotland, some hint that she was in trouble, or… the thought jarred his brain like a runaway truck… perhaps they had followed her at the airport, and then... His imagination rampaged out of control. He cupped his hands around his face and squinted into the front room. There was no sign of life. No coffee cups left half finished on the table. No magazines scattered untidily by the sofa. No flowers graced the sideboard. She always had flowers. He dialled the landline. He dialled the mobile again. Nothing. He walked down the lane to the campus, past the spot where the agent had lain white-faced in the moonlight, skull perforated by the killer’s bullet. One of Potzner’s. Another disappearing body. They were good at clearing up behind them – the CIA and them, whoever they were.
He stood on the bridge. The lake lay beneath him, scudding clouds reflected on its glassy surface. He leaned on the rail for support. First Natasha, now Sara. He chewed his thumb, checked his mobile again. No new messages. He remembered Potzner’s promise to call when he had an update on the Aberdeen find. They must have made some progress. And why had Farrell left him to his own devices? Then he twigged. They’ve got what they need. I’m no longer useful. Worse. I’m expendable.
Dracup kicked his way through piles of leaves, remonstrating with himself. Who could he trust now? What if Potzner sidelined him and cut to the chase? What would happen to Natasha? And Sara? They were just footnotes in the American’s agenda. But maybe he had an advantage – as long as nothing else pointed Potzner in the same direction – the wax tablet’s mention of Ethiopia. It was down to him to make the most of it. Dracup stretched his legs to a brisk pace. He needed to find out more. And quickly.
The hard disk grunted and rattled as Dracup typed two words into the search engine: Ethiopia space Lal. He scanned the results: ‘A journey to visit the astonishing religious centres of Ethiopia’,‘Lal Hotel’, ‘Lalibela, Ethiopia’. Dracup chose the third, and sat back to peruse the site:
‘They say it’s the 8th wonder of the world, the monastic settlement of Lalibela, perched upon a natural 2,600-metre rock terrace surrounded on all sides by rugged and forbidding mountains in the northern extreme of the modern province of Wollo.’
Dracup felt his heart rate increase. Something felt right about this. He read on:
‘– the passing centuries have reduced Lalibela to a village. From the road below, it remains little more than invisible against a horizon dominated by the 4,200-metre peak of Mount Abuna Joseph. Even close-up it seems wholly unremarkable, but legend has it that God told King Lalibela to build a series of churches. The churches are said to have been built with great speed because angels continued the work at night. Many scoff at such apocryphal folklore.’